


The Here and Now's What Counts

by Sherlock1110



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Brotherly Love, Gen, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5209595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was a baby, he didn't move. At all. His parents could put him in whatever position they liked, on his belly on his back, he wouldn't move. At first they'd thought he couldn't move, that there was something wrong with him, but all the doctor's and all the specialists said he was fine. Of course, they didn't believe that for a moment. It was normal for babies to move; to wiggle and kick out, Mycroft had done it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Here and Now's What Counts

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by sherlockian4evr

When Sherlock was a baby, he didn't move. At all. His parents could put him in whatever position they liked, on his belly on his back, he wouldn't move. At first they'd thought he couldn't move, that there was something wrong with him, but all the doctor's and all the specialists said he was fine. Of course, they didn't believe that for a moment. It was normal for babies to move; to wiggle and kick out, Mycroft had done it. 

At 3 months old, Sherlock could sit up. Alone. He had to be put in that position, but once he was, he would stay upright with perfect balance. 

At 6 months old, he could stand. Again, he had to be put in that position and he wouldn't move, not even to hold onto anything. 

It was Mycroft who first made Sherlock move. He would sit and watch his baby brother for hours, but never talk to him - he was just a baby after all, he couldn't talk back - until he realised that didn't matter. Sherlock was his little brother, no one else's, so he laid in front of him, the only way he could be smaller, and tried to encourage him forward. At first, he didn't understand and would stare at the older boy in confusion, but soon he realised what was meant to happen and his foot would go forward and then his other foot followed. 

Mycroft had never touched his baby brother, but at that point he scrambled to his knees and scooped the baby up, swinging him around and laughing. The baby actually chuckled and Mycroft froze, looking deep into grey-green eyes and at that moment, it seemed like time froze with Sherlock gazing back at him. He swung him around again to another chuckle, but then the booming voice of father was at the door.

"Mycroft Holmes, what the hell are you doing!"

Mycroft froze. "F-father."

"Put your brother down. Safely."

The older boy obeyed at once lowering the younger boy to sit on the floor. 

"He was enjoying it father."

"Don't be ridiculous." He looked at his younger son who didn't move on the mat. 

"He walked father. I promise."

"Lying isn't going to make this better for you."

He glanced down at the baby. "Go on, 'Lock. Show daddy."

Grey-green eyes followed his brother, but he didn't speak or move. 

Mycroft growled. 

"Go to your room Mycroft. I shall inform Mummy about what you've done. She'll decide how to punish you for being so reckless."

He knew arguing was fruitless. "Yes, Sir." 

Sherlock watched him leave with wide eyes, but didn't move even as his father picked him up. "Was your big brother mean to you?" He asked, knowing no response was likely. He was right, the boy just stared. Mr. Holmes sighed and carried him out of the room. 

Mycroft wasn't allowed near his brother for a week. In that time, the baby's expression was of confusion, but there was no denying the grin that spread across his face when Mycroft appeared. 

"You are not to pick him up. He is a baby, not a toy."

"Yes, Mummy," he agreed quietly. She left for the study, leaving the door open. 

Sherlock was sat up, resting back on the seat. 

"Are you alright, little brother?" Mycroft asked. He was expecting wide eyes to watch him, not nod. "So you can move?" He nodded again. "I was starting to believe that I imagined you walking the other day. Why did you stare at father?" He shrugged. "So you're 25 weeks old, can sit, stand, walk and communicate successfully. Why don't you?" He shrugged again. "Can you go from sitting down to standing up?" Sherlock frowned. "Like this."

Mycroft moved to sit on the floor beside his brother and the smile on Sherlock's face would have lit a Christmas tree. Mycroft attempted to mimic the movement that Sherlock would need to do; twisting around onto his knees, holding on to the chair and then pushing himself up. Sherlock watched intently and then tried. He failed the first time, hitting his head. Mycroft had a quick glance at the door, but didn't want to leave him if he was going to cry so picked him up and sat him on his lap. Sherlock did look like he was going to cry, but the older boy poked his tongue out and the cry was cut off before it began. Sherlock rarely cried, if he did now their parents would blame Mycroft and God knows how long it would be before he was allowed to see his little brother again. 

"Are you really going to cry?" Mycroft asked him, turning him so he was sat on his lap, little legs poking out either side of his brother's hips. 

"No…"

Mycroft smiled, his little brother was only just 6 months old and he could already use a word in the correct way, even if it was just one word. "You're clever for a baby."

"Cl-cle-cle."

"…ver," Mycroft encouraged. He wouldn't be surprised if the boy could manage it after a moment ago. 

"Cle- clever."

Sherlock matched his brother's smile. "Why don't you do this for mummy and father?"

He opened his mouth, but realised he didn't have the words to express what he meant and closed it again answering with a shrug.

"Do you want to try to stand again?"

Sherlock nodded. 

The brothers never got caught getting up to mischief, but that didn't mean they didn't cause it. When their parents had guests over, Mycroft would look after his little brother. They would sit in his room, on his bed, while Mycroft helped him read. They would watch a bit of telly while Mycroft made deductions and Sherlock would clap at the ones he liked. It wasn't until Sherlock was 3 that he started making deductions himself, Mycroft returned the same curtesy his brother had always given him and clapped at the interesting ones. It wasn’t the deductions as much as the range of vocabulary that he had which amazed Mycroft. There was another boy in his class at school who had a brother Sherlock's age. The boy was 12 whereas Mycroft was only 10, but he was always compiling how his brother did nothing. Apparently he had only just started walking and his speech was slow and uninteresting. Mycroft was glad he wasn't the only clever boy. He was glad he had Sherlock. 

When he had been about Sherlock's age, maybe a bit older, he assumed all children spoke the way he did, but he'd been surprised at the first toddler group they went to and all the other babies were walking around bouncing off chairs and doors. They were all clumsy and definitely couldn't hold a conversation. So when Sherlock had started showing signs of above average intelligence, he was more than happy. He was ecstatic. He still didn't move in front of mummy or daddy. They knew he did move. They'd sometimes put him down and return a while later to find the room empty, but when they got back from their search he was in the same place. The older boy was told by father that Sherlock had to be in bed by 8, but at half past 10 they were sneaking into the kitchen so they could go through the fridge. Little Sherlock was on Mycroft's shoulders reaching for the chocolate cream cake at the top. 

"Come on, My, got it."

He made sure he lowered him down gently, ensuring he had both feet firmly on the ground before straightening up and taking the large filled plate from his hands. They went up to their rooms through the back stairs to avoid suspicion and settled on Sherlock's bed. It was always Sherlock's bed when food was involved. No one believe Sherlock could reach it after all. 

 

At age 5, Sherlock started showing his intelligence to people other than Mycroft. They were all amazed. He began moving in front of them and could even mast a few pieces on the violin. It was, of course, a child's one. Sherlock was quite a small 5 year old and wouldn't have been able to hold an adult one. 

 

When Sherlock was 9, Mycroft was preparing himself for university after sitting his A-Levels 2 years early. At first Sherlock had been happy for his brother, but when he realised he would be away for days at a time he began to panic. 

He wandered into Mycroft's bedroom one Friday evening to find him packing. 

"How long will you be gone for, Myc?"

"Just two weeks and then I will be back at weekends." Sherlock nodded. 2 weeks was ok. He was starting his new school now, straight into his first year at the big school, the youngest ever, well the youngest ever apart from Mycroft. He would be busy with school and time would fly by. 

Except when the weekend Mycroft was due home rolled around and he phoned to let mummy know he was busy and wouldn't be able to make it, Sherlock locked himself in his room. 

"He will not leave his room, Mrs. Holmes. I have tried."

"Thank you Mrs. H."

Neither of the elder Holmes could get their youngest son to leave his bedroom. They had Mrs. Hudson place food outside the door for him and only occasionally did it disappear when the smell wafting beneath the door was too much. 

When Monday rolled around, Sherlock appeared in his full school uniform by the door, waiting for the driver to pick him up. Except he wasn't his usual happy, smart self. His bag was slung over one shoulder, the sleeve of his blazer poking out where he'd zipped it up. His hands were in his pockets as he leant back against the wall. To glance at, he looked 14, not 9. 

When he had been younger, it had only been Mycroft that managed to make him smile, make him wear his tie properly, make him actually where his blazer and as he had got older he had done it just to see Mycroft smile at him and tell him well done. Now, though, now there was no point. Mycroft wasn't here, and he doubted he would say well done again. He had been excited about his new school two weeks ago. The chance to tell Mycroft all about it when he came home was the only reason, but now that conversation wouldn't take place, he didn't care. 

He came home from school every day that week late. On Thursday, he'd been questioned by his parents as to why they had had a phone call home. He hadn't done any of his homework, he'd been late to all his classes and it had taken the teacher that was on detention duty 20 minutes to find him when he hid. 

 

It took 3 weeks for Sherlock to get bored of detention every night and that Third Friday was different. Friday, Sherlock managed to stay within the rules. His lateness wasn't enough to get him in trouble and he handed in the bare minimum required for the homework, not the high flyer he'd been on the first week of term. 

Later that evening, Mrs. Holmes climbed the stairs to Sherlock's bedroom. She let her fingers tap against the door. "Sherlock?" 

"Go away!"

"Sherlock, darling, may I come in?" 

She heard him sigh. "I'm not stopping you." She pushed the door, surprised to find it not locked for a change. He was sat at his desk, drawing. One book open on the side, Mrs. Holmes recognised as his favourite pirate book. 

"What are you doing, Sweetheart?"

"Homework," he drawled. 

"There's someone downstairs who wants to see you."

Sherlock's unusual eyes flickered up and down his mother once before returning to his picture. He knew exactly who was down stairs, but he didn't care. 

"Well, tell him to stay down there."

Mrs. Holmes moved forward and sat on the seat beside his desk. "He's home for the whole weekend."

"Good for him."

"He wants to see you."

"Well, he'll see me at supper then, won't he?" Sherlock snapped. 

"He's sorry he hasn't been home. He's been busy."

"You're busy. Father's always busy. You don't stay at the supermarket all weekend and father doesn't stay at work all weekend."

The elder women sighed. She ran her hand through his untameable curls. "I'll see you at supper then."

Sherlock nodded jerkily and then let his head bang against his desk when the door shut. 

Why was Mycroft home now? Why? Why couldn't he have stayed at Oxford where he belonged? He found his temper getting the better of him, something he hadn't let happen since he was a toddler. Mycroft. Again. 

He wasn't certain how long passed, but when he came back to his senses his room was a mess. His shelves had collapsed, throwing his books to the floor. His desk was on one side, the work he had been doing scattered around the room and the majority of his clothes had been kicked under the bed. 

At the knock on the door he shouted, "Piss off!" 

The door opened and Mycroft stood there. He took one look around the room and then laid his eyes on his little brother. 

"Oh, Lockie."

"Don't call me that!" He spat. He threw a shoe and it smashed into the wall next to the older boy.

"Mummy told me about school, all the trouble you've been getting into."

"Big deal!" He threw the other shoe and Mycroft sighed. He turned to leave, but he heard his brother collapse to the floor, his knees to his chest and his face pressed to the top of them as he sobbed heart-wrenching sobs. 

The older boy watched him for a moment. "'Lock, I'm sorry," he said. He closed the door behind him and paced into the room. 

"What did I do wrong?" He sobbed. 

"You didn't do anything wrong. I was busy, that's all. The course introduction was hectic."

He knelt down in front of his brother and tentatively reached out a hand, resting it on his shoulder. He glanced around the room. The mess was his fault and he felt bad enough without seeing his baby brother hurt and upset too. 

Round eyes peered up at him. "It wasn't my fault?"

"No, little one, it wasn't your fault."

Mycroft didn't quite understand what happened next. All he did know was, as he turned back to look at the younger boy, a little figure slammed into him wrapping his arms tightly around him. He would never let him go again.


End file.
